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‘I do. Come along.’
On our way to our destination, we had some more friendly encounters with rebels. By the time we reached the refectory, both Mr Ambrose and Karim had acquired uniforms of the Piratini Republic, although Karim somewhat spoiled the effect by refusing to take off his turban.
‘It’s not so bad,’ I tried to forestall an argument. ‘Maybe they’ll think he’s part of the Republic’s East Indian detachment.’
Mr Ambrose threw me a dark look, and Karim mumbled something about needing help from a female.
‘Hey, I was only trying to be helpful. I-’
‘Quiet!’
Raising one finger to his lips, Mr Ambrose slowly approached a large door at the end of the corridor. Reaching out, he pushed against the door, gently, almost tenderly. It moved, slowly, opening just a crack.
‘I don’t see him in there,’ Mr Ambrose whispered. ‘But there are three soldiers - and one of them has the manuscript.’ He glanced over at us. ‘We have to get it back. Without it, we might as well turn around and go home.’
His face said clearly that this wasn’t an option.
‘Leave it to me.’ Karim stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. ‘I’ve been ambushed two times too many this day. I have scores to settle!’
Before either of us could move a muscle, he had drawn his sabre and slipped into the room, silent as a gagged shadow that had taken a vow of silence. A moment later, we heard two thuds out of the refectory, followed by an ‘Ouff!’ - and then nothing.
The door swung open, and Karim stepped out, carrying the manuscript in one big hand, and all our three backpacks in the other.
‘Do you have everything?’ Mr Ambrose demanded.
‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘Then let’s get out of here,’ I hissed. ‘Before they-’ I jutted my finger towards the refectory door, ‘-wake up!’
The Mohammedan gave me a level look. ‘They won’t.’
‘Oh. You mean you, um…’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case, I think we should get out of here even faster. I haven’t gotten to know the dear Lieutenant Alvarez very well, but he doesn’t seem to me like a man who appreciates having his soldiers’ throats cut.’
‘For once Mr Linton,’ Mr Ambrose said, grabbing his knapsack, ‘I am in agreement. Let’s go!’
Apparently, the glorious Army of the Piratini Republic wasn’t quite as well-staffed as the forces of imperialist oppression. They had only one guard outside the prison, and he was snoring, with a pipe hanging out the side of his mouth. Mr Ambrose didn’t even bother to knock him over the head.
‘Why waste time knocking him out and tying him up?’ Kicking open the stable door, he grabbed his packhorse by the bridle and pulled. ‘Now, if anyone comes along, he’ll report that he was watchful as an eagle the entire time, and didn’t see a single soul leave. Much more convenient for our purposes.’
He dragged his horse to the stable door, then returned and gazed through a crack in the wall out over the open land.
‘Hm. There is a guard right between us and the jungle. Maybe, we could just get past him. We have their uniforms. Karim, if you were to take off your turban…?’
‘No, Sahib.’
There was a moment of silence - this one so pregnant it would probably end in a disastrous miscarriage. ‘No’ was not a word in Mr Ambrose’s vocabulary. The moment stretched…and stretched…and maybe we would need a C-section after all.
‘I see.’ Mr Ambrose straightened. ‘Then keep behind us as much as possible. And…’
‘Yes?’
‘Try to appear small.’
I looked at the enormous, muscle-bound Mohammedan. If Mr Ambrose had asked he appear as a purple goblin with adorable little horns, that would have been more likely to succeed.
